


Drop a Beat: Marionette

by YogurtTime



Category: Johnny's Entertainment, KAT-TUN (Band)
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Mind Control, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-21 01:04:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11933100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YogurtTime/pseuds/YogurtTime
Summary: Dropping beats like puppet strings; steely author of percussion, Nakamaru uses his mouth to get what he wants.





	Drop a Beat: Marionette

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted August of 2011. Inspired by KAT-TUN's performance on Music Lovers of that year.

 

_Bite in Slip_

 

 

Nakamaru was not accustomed to the concept of getting what he wanted.

 

_Clave and Click_

 

 

Simply put, he could have gone years without noticing.

It was normal when he thought about it. What _wasn’t_ normal about fingers tapping a beat against a jean-clad thigh; heel of a leather boot skidding over the carpet in careful impressions?

The percussion of the movement only made him persist, and feel like he was attached to something, like he was just laying out strings of partiality.

Kame didn’t seem aware of it; that was twice as thrilling that he would cross the room toward Nakamaru on a whim.

Nakamaru had his lips pursed, creating absent-minded clicks and he noticed the mirror of it, the obvious, but shy reflection of his own internal tune.

_Hello, Kame_

He would later try justification. He hadn’t meant for it to happen. Beat boxing had always been a constant for him; practicing and practicing until his tongue was used to the ache, until he could imitate the serrated bass noises in the back of his throat, echo memories of radio waves.

That Kame’s body started to echo _him_ was in no way his fault. He’d only just begun to work out the most _appropriate_ patterns.

 

 

_Snap That Snare_

 

 

At first it was just silliness. He’d have Kame do something amusing (gag imitations were his favourite) during a meeting or a rehearsal, between shoots. The tiny lance of excitement was that it was something Kame wouldn’t ever do willingly in front of anyone. It looked awkward and their band mates’ gazes lingered, speculation over an image change.

No one wondered why he beat-boxed more frequently. He just got better, clicks of his tongue, air tight hissing between teeth. Such art.

It was Kame’s secret smile after he executed those strange wordless orders--perfectly-- that made Nakamaru think of colours, cadent patterns and parallels.

Yes, artistry.

Because Kame became vibrant. And Nakamaru knew he’d brought it out in him. Perhaps in these odd moments, purely out of character, being accepted despite the fact, it was edifying.

Kame looked at him from across a table, steady, dark and russet gaze. He was lurid shadow underneath a deeply burnt cinnamon fringe. Branding gaze.

Nakamaru sealed off his own airflow with the tip of his tongue, blew. For vibration. For a click roll.

Kame smiled at him, head tilting to the side, glow of a prurient intrigue.

 

 

_Rock the Spot_

 

 

Expensive wines. Long thin bottles of Syrah. They were only ever alone in a crowded, balmy yellow lit restaurant. And there Kame’s sips turned steadily to thick swallows, the rim of the glass set neatly on the press of his rouging lower lip. Kame’s Adam’s apple bobbed between the parted lapels of his button-up. Nakamaru was hyper aware of his own discomfort, and his startled effort not to stare.

What was so thrilling?

_Maybe not so much at once_

Nakamaru could beatbox on the cold glass of an empty bottle; it was always funny.

“Let’s have a sober exchange; stay out long and wide awake,” he’d said, leaning across the table in a gesture more intimate for him than for anyone else.

Kame regressed to sips, curl of his expressively mean mouth so empyrean. Nakamaru knew he’d been overthrown when he smiled back.

“I’d like that,” Kame murmured, pressing the glass flute with his round index finger, sliding it over the tablecloth, faint crease and a dispassionate lick of his own lips.

Nakamaru didn’t believe that this was relevant to _improvement_. He valued individuality; felt pleased that he was versatile to the habits of the crazies around him.

So Kame, from his rough, candid gestures to his affected, prim capability was not something Nakamaru wanted to change. Kame was so much of an ideal, a being on the cusp of perfection. Just so. Smooth, hard features and a glance that was almost violent at times.

He wanted _that_ just the way it was.

 

 

 

_Roll Up and Run It_

 

The real horror came when there were things he wanted simply because he could have them. In Kame’s private time, it was all or nothing, but at work...

Koki’s round amber eyes squint shyly, pouty lips curl up in a way that seems all too suspect when Kame’s round arm slides comfortably over his shoulders. Nakamaru, no more than a metre away, feels a deep spindle of discomfort. What it is doesn’t matter. Koki needed pretty reminders of affection, of his value. Kame showered them gratuitously, without apology. Scattered largess.

Kame leans close when he whispers, says something low and laughing in Koki’s ear and there’s no helping it.

There’s a thing Nakamaru does. A series of “hi hats” and “inward snares” and with their single already ringing in the background, he could be accompanying; could be practicing. No one minds, really.

Kame’s gaze flickers toward him, midway through a chuckling sentence, hand slipping off Koki’s shoulder with a languor that seems almost tenuously meaningful to Nakamaru.

Some compartments of logic told him he was being challenged, but Kame just acquiescing stopped his sudden spiral of distress.

 

 

_Twist and Wreck_

 

It wouldn’t bother him normally. Kame was just physically expressive with those he liked in particular. Taguchi didn’t respond to touch the way Koki would. Nakamaru had seen him freeze up on many an occasion in some strange lock of joints and a stilled train of thought.

Kame was the youngest, though and Nakamaru could see the careful relaxation-- after years of it-- Taguchi took with him.

How could something so clearly demonstrative and suggestive be so fickle. Across the room, Nakamaru watched Kame’s heavily ringed fingers make a careful course along the edges of Taguchi’s nape, crushing the brush of hair upward.

Taguchi’s response was how he didn’t smile and that was more meaningful than the effect to common cause. Taguchi’s eyes slid shut with affected indulgence because Kame liked that, the respect to it; to attachment. Nakamaru’s nerves sizzled and shook and as far as his expression…well, that was irrelevant.

He didn’t do a thing; he was afraid of the boil of his own insides, of what he’d even say when he opened his mouth. The insecurity attached to making a single sound.

Kame stopped, pulled away from their smiling Taguchi and darted a nervous-- with shoulders curled from the uneasy shiver up his spine-- particularly engaging look at Nakamaru. Resignation. Sighs.

He had questions for Kame swimming in his head. _Do you know? Is it an audible voice in your head? Do…you like it?_

 

 

_Shackle and Burst_

 

Nakamaru knew more than anyone else that Ueda was cold physically. And with that Nakamaru understood Kame’s warmth, his need to connect through the feel of living, breathing similarities. Nakamaru had warmth too, but the way Kame sometimes grabbed Ueda, locked his arms around him, shaking everyone with the affection in it was a whole world of different. Kame was flames of just helpless, demonstrative love.

It had taken years for Ueda to learn not to scramble away, not to throw Nakamaru a panicked glance, just to raise his own arms and grasp Kame just as tightly.

So that was precisely how it occurred right after a particularly successful dance rehearsal. Ueda’s effort made Kame glow for no other reason but that it reflected on how far they’d come. Strong, bare arms leapt around Ueda’s own angular shoulders and the smile, that gripping elated grin on Ueda’s face was all it took for Nakamaru to hold his breath.

He filled his mind right in that moment with frenetic avowals. Don’t breathe; don’t make a sound; don’t wish for anything but that which was already real. No more wanting. No more stealing.

Yet, why must they align so perfectly? What did it look like when Kame didn’t so much wrap his arms around Nakamaru but rather huddled down, waited for Nakamaru to open his, waited to slide awkwardly right under for any silent, brief touch of affection. What was Ueda gaining from the feel of Kame’s heartbeats and the youthful strength in his big arms?

It was not a ambivalence he could recreate for anything else. Rationality and ache all at once; bristle of questioning and self-loathing.

Kame went rigid, stepping away silently.

Nakamaru couldn’t even bring himself to feel any remorse; to feel like he’d stolen something from a friend. It was hard to feel guilt for taking something he’d already claimed.

 

 

_Spike in Rhythm_

 

 

He didn’t have to do a thing, make a sound, or play out any percussion to make Kame do these things anymore. It was thought. The questions—had the effect evolved? – which the circumstance demanded seemed more than irrelevant, they were troublesome to source. Nakamaru chose to view it as it was, to work along those appropriate, _safe_ lines.

_I’m so sorry, Kame._

They were out near Kame’s jeep; the sky was as grey as the pavement under his loafers. Nakamaru shifted his weight, straightened his back while fiddling with his keys, muttering rhythmically about restaurants, about his house, about activities revolving entirely -- perhaps dancing-- around the order he wanted to give.

“I can’t go out with you tonight…” Kame paused as if to let the second meaning click. “I’ve got to meet some friends. Let’s make it next week.”

That was a problem. Kame had seeped into his very senses, had made Nakamaru so accustomed to looking up and meeting his eyes. Not that he could attest to it personally, but it was sometimes as though he could see the way it was, big picture wise.

“You don’t _have_ to,” he heard himself say.

Promises that Kame’s gaze doled out, the type an idol would never be obligated to keep. Even without delivery, Nakamaru needed to look and see those miniature vows, needed to feel the potential of the heat Kame exuded.

For him right then, it was an enigmatic smile and a half-shrug. “Next week, Nakamaru-kun,” Kame muttered, imitating nonchalance, averting his gaze.

_Don’t go_

Kame’s hands were bigger than his, but Nakamaru’s fingers had always been longer. When he grasped, Kame stopped short, froze, and stared at him; at Nakamaru enclosing on his palm. Nakamaru could hear the early evening air in his ears, a cold slash of unending rush with the stillness between them just breathless.

Seconds with huge gaps in between raced over them before the sentience that appeared to have left Kame’s gaze flooded back and pooled into his irises once more. He came out of it like cresting from thick water, dazed and a little troubled.

“Fine,” Kame said finally, curling his own hand inward, returning the grasp. “I gotta get ready anyway; come, we’ll have a couple drinks at my place.”

 

 

_Know the Ledge_

 

The wine was warm and as much time as he’d spent with Kame, he didn’t like to drink much of it. It would usually defeat him after four sips. Nakamaru barely touched his glass; he set it carefully on Kame’s coffee table, coaster in place, the liquid congealing.

He couldn’t help liking the brisk firmness in Kame’s tone after he’d tipped his glass up, letting deep crimson liquid splash from the rim past his parted lips. “My friends are waiting near Omotesando. I’m just gonna take a shower and then you’ve got to go.”

The room became silent except for the buzzing sound of water spray from the shower in the other room. Nakamaru thought carefully of all that had led up to that moment, sitting in Kame’s sofa, one leg folded over the other, slipper just barely resting on the tip of his foot, running his tongue thoughtfully over his bottom lip, tasting the tang of a filmy bouquet.

He wanted. That was the issue. If he could only have just _not wanted_ then his strange power wouldn’t have made any difference; the feel of his own clicks and beats wouldn’t have had the chance to feel forbidden. Yet it was perfectly all right to want, he reasoned, but for the plain fact that he could simply _have_. He was changing everything with his lips.

Nakamaru didn’t remember when he stood up nor when he’d gained the brash stones to place his palm flat on Kame’s bedroom door and push.

 

 

_Break and Finish_

 

 

He stood staring at the monochrome of Kame’s bedroom décor for all of ten minutes, heard the water flow cap off and the padding sound of Kame stepping onto hot linoleum. The brush of his towel, soft tassels over skin.

Never having voiced it, it seemed more of a branching thrill when he thought it so clearly. Nakamaru was intrigued by Kame’s thighs. When he stepped out of his bathroom, he was just tucking a corner of the towel at his naked waistline. He stopped mid-step, met Nakamaru’s stare in the dark; a broad, damp, sweet-smelling silhouette as the glaring lights of his bathroom spilt around him.

It wasn’t silent between them. Nakamaru huffed a little anxiously. Kame’s laugh came out nervous and bewildered. “Well, this isn’t fair,” Kame remarked, bringing his hand up to crush the damp brown tendrils near his own throat.

Nakamaru couldn’t tell how it was possible to be both the only fully dressed person in the room and the most self-conscious. “What’s not fair?” His tone was curt, stiff the way he got around Kame during moments like this, testing if he was even capable of swallowing.

Kame stepped boldly into the room, only five steps away from Nakamaru in the doorway. “You…” he quipped with low-voiced amusement. “…Coming to ambush me here. It’s just not fair.”

Nakamaru’s brain swam right and left between excuses--perfectly rational reasons for him to have invaded Kame’s bedroom suddenly-- and shocking reverent cursing, half-formed phrases that already sounded so filthy to him. Kame crossed the room toward him, wearing the towel like another set of skin. Nakamaru panicked and tried to withdraw the hope in his head, tried not to think what it meant if Kame so much as knew what he was thinking about his possible taste alone.

_God, Kame_

“I wasn’t here to ambush—“ he never finished because as soon as the distance between them closed, Nakamaru had already brought his hands up to curve against Kame’s already bristly jaw, meet lips as hungry as his own. They bit surprisingly, Nakamaru pressing his lips down and sucking on Kame’s bottom lip, drawing out Kame’s tongue with his own. The taste was tangy, a burning bitter from the wine earlier and warm with a burgeoning stupor. He could feel the swell of his own lips against Kame’s; the raw rake of Kame’s naked chest over the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Mmm not fair…” Kame breathed against his lower lip. His heady intoxicating breath clouded over Nakamaru, tongue nicked the tip of his, mouth closed over his lips with careful pressure, and Kame’s hands remained curled with odd restraint on just the lapels of Nakamaru’s shirt. Nakamaru sighed, pictures forming in his mind. He wanted to push Kame backward, let him perch on the edge of the bed, heels of his hands digging desperately in the black coverlet while Nakamaru’s tongue and teeth could explore the softness of his skin.

It didn’t happen quite like that because Nakamaru moaned at the thought and Kame immediately went for the buttons of his shirt, rattling Nakamaru with the reality of what he was about to do, of the idea that he’d wanted that, wanted those capable round fingers to brush down his stomach, drag down his zipper rakishly just so he could resist with demure, so the grapple could begin and he’d have an excuse to push…

It was just satisfactory. Kame toppled backward on the bed, hands braced behind him, mouth curling up and biting his lip in almost happy surprise. The expression riled Nakamaru. It made him want to say something silly like “you’ve no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.” Nakamaru silently dropped to his knees instead, fingers spread over Kame’s knees, and thinking with some trepidation that this might not even be a matter of Kame getting himself into anything. This was Nakamaru’s doing.

Kame’s towel was loose from the fall, practically undone, delectable legs bare and cool under Nakamaru’s hot palms. Nakamaru couldn’t meet his eyes as he bent his head, nuzzling upward with both nose and lips, tracing a dry silky line on the inside of his leg, already trembling because Kame watched with such a docile aura, parting his legs for Nakamaru without shame. He was unbelievably willing and an old niggling self-doubt invaded Nakamaru’s already beacon senses.

“This is…is this OK?” he asked, mouth open over Kame’s skin already, and tongue quivering before he could even dip it in a perfect wet press.

Kame’s laugh then was ironic. “Nakamaru, you know damn well you could make me do anything,” he said, a little breathless laced with the old teasing.

The words struck like both a spike of pain and excitement riding from his stomach upward. “I’m…” He tugged at the towel, pulled it aside and rushed his tongue closer and higher until Kame’s soft, steady breaths turned into the faintest whimpers. “I’m so sorry.” Weird to have said it, mouth crushed against the curvature, the delicate tendons of Kame’s raised thigh. “Lay back. I want…” Blanketed the inside of his thigh with hot wet, kisses. “I want…”

Kame lay back, resting on his elbows with Nakamaru crawling toward him all just a dishevelled shirt, pants undone and a helpless expression.

Yeah, it was his thighs. Muscular, tender and a wanton handful as Nakamaru raised one over his shoulder and buried himself downward, ran a hot tongue in a divine line around his balls, nuzzling and humming in a beat-flavoured moan, purposeful press of his lip along Kame’s perineum eliciting a grazing, surprised cry. Exciting that he could do that. Kame’s curving, upright cock bumped his cheek as he rose up to get a look at him. Kame had fallen flat, arms raised over his head, fists against his pillows, staring in delirious and delighted confusion at Nakamaru’s pause.

“You’re amazing,” Kame whispered with an almost innocent reverence. “God, but I knew you would be…”

The statement-- cluttered with the possibilities that Kame had imagined him like this—just made him so hot, he caught himself praying it would all be real and clicked his tongue pensively-- a habit he wouldn’t have been aware of except Kame’s stomach tightened suddenly in response. His mouth parted in a sudden, begging pant, expecting something, opening for him, arms flexing as he writhed a little eagerly over the silky coverlet. Nakamaru did it again curiously and Kame arched, the muscles in his thigh hiking him higher.

The burn of Kame’s skin and his gasping crescendo of whimpers gave Nakamaru an immediate, thrilling idea. He opened his mouth as he went down, letting Kame’s dick land heavily against his tongue and he brought the head of it right up against his palate, made a tapping “tuh” sound against it and Kame’s whole body flexed with a new type of shudder.

It became experimental; the deepest growls he knew, locked up vocals to vibrate at tormenting intervals. Kame swam over the coverlet, gripping whatever he could grasp with Nakamaru’s mouth and tongue imitating a wet metronome. Nakamaru drove him soon with clicks, snares and snappy “tchs” along the underside of his dick, playing against the throbbing veins, working him raw like a threadbare mic.

Nakamaru found the flicks to be the most thrilling, tongue gliding and curled, usually high-pitched now low and slick with his mouth open around Kame. The harsh flush spreading upward between them thrummed in the air. Nakamaru slid his palms to cup the softest skin of Kame’s buttocks and pull him upward without preamble. Kame immediately keened, growling and clenching his teeth when Nakamaru closed his mouth over the head finally.

Kame scrambled then, casting out a grabbing hand, curling in a restraint, fingers trembling as he touched the back of Nakamaru’s neck, cantering his hips upward. There was a moment of adjustment as Kame’s dick scraped his palate and Nakamaru involuntarily grunted. He closed his mouth on it, letting the silken skin of it cross his lips. His jaw locked while Kame hummed some type of aching approval, riding upward. His right leg curved, hooking Nakamaru’s torso inward and using the press against him as momentum to grind upward.

His mouth was full, lips all quickly used up and sore but he felt a galvanizing sense of dominion over Kame simply oscillating like that, allowing the flood-skin fill of Kame rocking upward in a hissing periodicity, one hand braced on Nakamaru’s neck, the other gathering his coverlet closer in a drowning tenure. It was sudden; Kame went rigid, still canting up, mouth open and groans caught in tempered new sobbing sounds until all Nakamaru had to do was dive low, bring it in once and see stars, feel the strings of it strike the back of his throat.

Kame’s whole frame rocked, twitched and then went limp, still wrapped around Nakamaru, legs enfolding him, fingers still dancing languidly over the moistened locks at his collar. Nakamaru remained cleaved to him, dropping numb-mouthed kisses along Kame’s hipbone. There was still a crackling burn blinding his senses, making the mere move of Kame’s arms and torso like a fomenting move, awakening them both to brush of cock on the fabric of slacks. His zipper was already parted, freeing the brush.

 

 

_Fury hit Bass_

 

 

Kame’s eyes were glimmering slits; thumb and forefinger ran hotly along the open buttons of Nakamaru’s shirt, pads of his fingers only just grazing Nakamaru’s nipples--electrifying-- when he leant forward. Nakamaru smouldered down at Kame, hips brushing, his own fingers running perspiring patterns along Kame’s perineum, tender skin making him hitch upward. Kame returned the gaze and touch with a silent nod toward the night table. Imagination or otherwise, they were both giving the orders then.

Kame had to lean his head back, allow Nakamaru to slide his leg higher as he reached a little fumblingly for the bedside table, pulling the thin drawer open, closing his fingers around a packet first, then blindly reaching around until he felt a round bottle.

All lines were blurred. How much of it was plain by orders, the cant of his hips brushing expectantly over Kame’s upper thigh; how much of it was Kame’s hold over him. Kame watched him, quiet and lofty, stretching a little, just staring with that prurient, willing gaze. Promises, teases, gifts; all for him within those burning seconds. Nakamaru slipped one leg around Kame’s right thigh, rising up on his knees, pulling Kame’s left leg more comfortably on his shoulder. He spilled the bottle when he manoeuvred to pour it over his fingers. Kame’s mouth twisted into a moue of exasperation when Nakamaru flickered a look at him.

It clung to his fingertips, spread generously and thick when he ran it in a half-circle over Kame’s opening. And the expression on Kame’s face died in favour of a pained, lip-biting one. Perfect was the texture of his hot skin then, lazy movements and quiet invites. Nakamaru pressed deep, already his eyes closing at the feel of it, at the promise that he’d have this warmth closing in on him. The way his fingers--two and then three—could spread and twist and Kame would buck backwards, body loving and hating the pain, waiting for the peck of wonderful via Nakamaru’s middle finger.

“Now?” Nakamaru whispered, his voice completely gone, hushed from the streak of his desire.

Kame didn’t open his eyes, but merely reached down, locked his arms around Nakamaru’s waist, already rocking with each twist of Nakamaru’s fingers. He nodded, pulling Nakamaru in himself. Nakamaru braced himself because he couldn’t stop the shaking relief of it, his own body shuddering into Kame, slick and insatiable.

And then it was beautiful. Whatever dream Nakamaru could construct in his mind would be crass and silly next to the flood of skin and Kame’s careful, longing sounds that thrummed into the corners of the room with moan-flavoured “ha’s” and helpless songs of his name. _Yucchi._

_Oh, Kame_

Had he dreamt it up? Made it happen, revelled in the claim he had over Kame? Kame’s own fingers dug deep in his spine, body all limbs, and rigid torso contorted about him, a sweet sheen rising on his hand-rubbed mahogany edges. Nakamaru gyrated blindly, thrusted until Kame couldn’t move for the disjoint in measure. He closed his fingers around the calf at his shoulder to manage a more striking angle and Kame gripped Nakamaru’s hips tighter, letting a yearning last milk-bare cry shake out of him.

Nakamaru went on, driven in a deep jealous pace, remembering the Kame’s touches for other people, his determined physical love. It scalded him suddenly and he crushed his eyes shut, tried to still the rage-memory. He turned his head into the soft flesh of Kame’s leg, feeling the electric beam of it drape from his stomach, clutching every vein. His lips closed over the skin, teeth grazing zealously, relishing the protesting, but rhapsodic cry Kame gifted him with.

It finished him and they fell together again, Kame’s arms coming in automatically, closed around Nakamaru’s own shaking ones as he twitched from rapturous aftershocks.

Stillness and breathing. Their bodies heave and the mattress beneath them counts their exhales. Kame’s tone, hoarse and smoky, murmured into his throat. “You’re not going to let me go _anywhere_ , are you?”

Nakamaru was beset by his own principles then. He curled into Kame once again, welcoming the still-sticky touch of their skin clinging as he shut his eyes. Sifting out the world, this universe where he wasn’t supposed to get what he wanted.

 

 

_Release the Beat_

 

When Kame’s eyes open, he’s immediately aware it’s because his phone’s been buzzing. A text? His clock reads two A.M; the big black numbers staring out at him and he aches all over. He kicks back the sheets and slips out, wincing as he hops over to his phone on the dresser.

It’s a passive-aggressive missive about keeping appointments next time. Kame swallows and just shuts the phone, laying it back on his dresser. He feels an immediate vindictive satisfaction that he’s skipped out on that dinner for…

He’s groggy, eyes not yet partial to the light nor the fact that he’s standing upright, but he breathes temperately when he turns back to look at the bed. Empty, sheets turned down only where he’d hopped out. His thoughts race in an abrupt slew of conclusions, worries and denials, but he hears the splash of water in his bathroom.

When he opens the door, Nakamaru stands there fully dressed, towelling streams of water from his face and neck. His austere, cynical eyes drag a trail down Kame, still naked, leaning against the doorjamb. He does it swiftly and a little unobtrusively, reaching for Kame’s robe hung over the counter and stepping forward to slip it around his shoulders. Gently, silently. Kame can’t even help his smile when Nakamaru adjusts the lapels of it sternly. He’d always figured falling for this one was a long time coming.

Nakamaru folds his arms. “I’m really sorry for all this,” he says curtly and Kame’s smile fades.

“What are you talking about?” Sometimes he sounds this low and steely and he can’t do anything for it. If Nakamaru’s about to pull this kind of bull, Kame’s not having it.

Nakamaru swallows, unblinking however. “You…” he begins, careful gaze tracing a memory over Kame’s face, lingering on his eyes, softly. “You don’t need to be changed. The way you are, I’ve always liked it and I don’t want to be the one who would do anything to you just so I can….” His mouth curls up, that sideways bitter and sheepish display of teeth. “So I can have you.” He says it with only the self-deprecation grandiose words like that merit.

Only now more confusing. Kame licks his lips thoughtfully. “Is this you coming to some kind of decision?” he asks severely.

Nakamaru doesn’t waver. “Yes. Apparently I can make you do anything I want.” He sits on the weight of this statement, lets it sink between them. “Well, I want you to be the stunning person I’ve come to know, separate from me...”

Kame registers these words. He caters the silence, not breaking his gaze in the blinding bathroom light. “Nakamaru…” he says finally, darkly.

Nakamaru stares. “Yeah…” he says sullenly after a tense second.

The belt around Nakamaru’s waist is loose as usual, just enough space for Kame’s fingers to slide in and drag him forward. “I do what you want because I _want_ to.” He smells like expensive mints and soap, and Kame drinks him in. “So don’t you dare try to tell me what to do.”

Of course he gets it, what Nakamaru was on about. He’s an odd one; definitely not quite accustomed to the concept of getting what he wants.

 

 

  
_End_

  


 


End file.
